The Next One

In a matter of weeks, I will finally conclude the first draft of my novel. I feel excited, nervous and sad. The novel defined 2013. Here’s hoping the second draft will mould the year ahead. And when I write that final word of the first draft, I will put it away, out of thought, for a month. Then what? A space will open. How should I shape it. What will be its fill? Of course, there will be blog posts and reading, and, perhaps a vacuum, a soft receptivity, for new ideas…

Ideas. Ideas. Another story. Another eighty thousand words. A new adventure. This is how I will use my empty time, to feed the embryos in my notebook; my pen, the umbilical stretch between head and paper. There are two seeds, and I like both equally.

Firstly,  a tale about a psychotherapist who suffers from ME, and has lost her husband.

Secondly, a dystopian fantasy derived from a highly lucid dream a week ago, one of those dreams that interrupted break fast and the morning chores, wouldn’t shake itself away; the more I excavated its channels, raking out the clay, the more I discovered the kernels of a narrative, and a strong female lead. Because this idea is new born, so fresh, so fragile, I’m keeping my cards close to my chest. What I will share is the dream, its exclamation mark, the part that stuck…

I’m in an elevator descending into the earth’s depths. Deep, deep and deeper. The door opens, and I walk into a room with guards. Is this a prison? There are other people, mainly women. They are here because it is over populated above, because they all suffer mental health problems…

I keep a dream diary. Maybe I should reread its pages for inspiration.

And here’s a conundrum, how will I know which story to write first?

Have you written a story from a dream?
Do you have several ideas on the go?
How do you chose which one to write first?